


we are beautiful, we are doomed

by TheSpaceCoyote



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Claiming Bites, Clothed Sex, Everyone Gets a Shiny New Outfit, Grand Marshal Hux, Hux Wears the Robe, Lap Sex, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, Possessive Behavior, Power Play, Rough Sex, Supreme Leader Kylo Ren
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-18
Updated: 2019-03-18
Packaged: 2019-11-23 22:11:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18157679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSpaceCoyote/pseuds/TheSpaceCoyote
Summary: The Supreme Leader's coronation is about to begin.Kylo still doesn't understand why Hux has insisted on such a ceremony, and why he's let him get away with influencing so many of his decisions lately.Perhaps paying Hux a brief visit in his dressing room will allow Kylo the chance to check the Grand Marshal's ego—and maybe even settle some of thephysicaltension between them.





	we are beautiful, we are doomed

**Author's Note:**

> This just came out of me wanting to write some more smut with these two! A couple weeks ago people wanted me to write lap-sitting porn, so this is what came out of it lol. But with insecure Supreme Leader Kylo, a conniving Hux, and the power play between them! c;
> 
> This is probably the least canon-compliant of my fics so far, sorry if there's errors or things that don't make sense, I'm still kind of trying to figure out this universe and how it works.

Hux instantly knows it’s Kylo who’s entered his chambers, by the impudent _clomp_ of his boots and the sudden, foreboding aura that prickles upon his exposed neck. Hux may not be sensitive in Kylo’s Force, but with the energy leaching out the man every moment, it’s not hard for even a nonentity such as himself to detect his presence.

Although Hux senses him he doesn’t bother speaking up until he knows Kylo’s right behind him—standing, pausing, probably letting his eyes linger on the drooping back collar of Hux’s robe. He’s already untied the thing, let it fall to catch on the angle of his elbows, preventing it from dropping away entirely into a gauzy pool upon the floor.

“Isn’t it bad luck?”

“What is?”

“To see me before the ceremony.”

Kylo huffs, embarrassed.

“Grand Marshal. This is not a wedding.”

“Really?” Hux smirks, looking over his shoulder. “So I’m _not_ irrevocably chained to you, Supreme Leader?”

Kylo prickles, expression taking on a deeper glower. Hux is in one of his bold, almost flippant moods, sharp tongue comfortable picking at Kylo within reason. And he’s already feeling unsettled, slightly unsure about the day’s event and how he’ll perform—and whether it’s all even necessary.

Kylo’s already in the attire he will wear as the Order’s new leader. In addition to the cape that trails behind him, he’s donned a long black tunic accented with curved seams and an open collar that reveals his throat, as well as a pair of boots that vaults him a few inches taller. The clothes make him feel larger, more conscious of the space he occupies and hopefully—more intimidating.

At first he’d ridiculed Hux for proposing a proper ceremony to signify his ascendence as Supreme Leader, but eventually he’d relented, understanding it might help sway those remaining in doubt to his side—and intimidate those steadfast in their beliefs he didn’t deserve his newfound power.

Funnily enough, he considers _Hux_ to fall into the latter category, and yet this entire ceremony, as well as Kylo’s new outfit, had all started with him. It makes him a little bit suspicious, that Hux, emboldened with his new promotion, is going to try something while Kylo is distracted with all the ritual he’s expected to perform, but he’ll have his knights poised alongside him in case of betrayal. Suspicion or not, Hux is hardly a credible threat in the face of his might.

“You serve me,” Kylo reminds, stalking closer to the marshal, “beyond that, you can define it however you’d wish.”

Hux simpers, robe falling a little further down his arm. He has a small pot of something creamy and pale pink in one hand, fingers swiping through it and rubbing it into his cheeks. Kylo doesn’t know what it is but it smells distinctly of florals.

“Is there something you need from me, sir?”

For a moment Kylo forgets why he even bothered coming by the marshal’s quarters if he dislikes him so much. So many things lately leave him feeling confused and adrift, like he hardly inhabits his own body. In such a short amount of time, everything has changed, and despite having more power than he ever possessed before, Kylo feels oddly fangless.

“Not particularly. I assumed there might be last minute details of the ceremony you might wish to tell me before it commences.” It’s fatuous reasoning, but Kylo’s not incorrect in his assumption that Hux enjoys outlining plans and rituals, smugly proud of his own ability to relate them with far better recall than Kylo’s capable of.

“So you’re in need of a pep talk?” Hux turns halfway towards him as he grabs for a white comb sitting atop the vanity, parting his hair with a couple deliberate flicks. Kylo briefly glances down to the profile of the marshal’s exposed chest, the way the opened robe intimately frames his soft nipples, before returning to Hux’s face.

“Remind me why I’m going through with such a ridiculous masquerade, perhaps.”

So much of what Kylo feels is frivolity has gone into this coronation.He even has a new _throne_ , for stars’ sake, something he would’ve never envisioned for himself. He’d had Snoke’s destroyed when they’d scuttled the Supremacy and thought that’d be the end of such things. After all, he feels he has no need for something as ostentatious and unnecessary as a throne—but then Hux had provided him with the design and a budget already prepped for its construction, and he’d conceded, like he’d conceded to the new attire and ceremony.

For now it sits in the grand hall where the ceremony will take place, impressively lording its presence atop a layered dais. A geometric frame of durasteel holds together the bulk of the throne—deep, black rock, mined from Cynda and full of inborn scintillations evident only when one draws closer, like these little specks of reality only burst into being once someone observes them. It’s certainly an impressive sculpt, befitting of his new power.

Kylo doesn’t plan to use it much, but its creation had satisfied Hux in some way. He’d looked upon it with more fondness than Kylo had, anyway. Almost wistfully.

“I felt like you of all people might understand the importance of symbolism and ritual, Supreme Leader,” Hux states, focused on his expression in the mirror.

It’s not that. Kylo understands the importance of such things. But his own rituals are _private_ —deep introspections of self, to strengthen his bond to the Force, with only his knights as the occasional witness. Flaunting oaths and showy symbols for the sake of an audience feels unsuitably unauthentic, like he’s scraping for the approval for others. 

“I do,” he murmurs, “I just wonder how much of this is necessary.”

Kylo can’t deny that Hux has done much to help consolidate his new reign, but finds much of his advice to be a little bit _insidious_. He might be able to overlook the throne, the coronation, the new, constraining clothes, but he might never forgive Hux for insisting their new capitol be located on Chandrila. It feels—quite literally—too close to home. Their new fortress had ripped up a field of jade-green grass, replacing it with acres of unyielding stone and durasteel that juts up into the sky, marking it forevermore with the continuance of the Order and inescapably linking Kylo Ren with the planet’s history.

Razing the former Republic structures gave him a moment of catharsis but it did little to mitigate his long term unease. Settling here forces confrontation with memories he thought he’d long since buried with his past, and the part of him that resents Hux has in some ways intensified as a result. He hadn’t bothered to question the intention of the marshal’s insistence, whether this was supposed to expose his weaknesses or coerce him into cutting the final ties to his old life—ties, Kylo would argue, that had already been _long_ severed.

“An _appearance_ of power is nearly as important as the nature of that power itself,” Hux says. “The gift of galactic sovereignty is a transient one. I merely want you to inaugurate your rule _correctly_ , so it might flourish and grow strong.”

Kylo scoffs. “I _am_ strong.”

“And this will only underscore that.” Hux gestures at him, from the tips of his boots to the taming of his wild hair. The marshal’s own ceremonial outfit hangs on the door of the wardrobe, every crease coerced out of it. It possesses a high collar, similar to the one curled around Kylo’s neck, but fastened tightly around the throat rather than flaring outwards. A long, red cape drapes from the seam of the collar and over the shoulders, mimicking the style of some of the old Imperials. A tiny gold chain hangs against the chest of the outfit, similar to the three suspended between pins of the Order’s emblem on Kylo’s tunic.

In fact, there’s a lot of symmetry between their outfits. Kylo knows it must’ve been intentional on Hux’s part, but it’s difficult for him to understand _why_. He thought Hux would want to distance himself from Kylo, not intentionally draw parallels between them.

“You can put up with it for one day, at least. Going forward, I won’t try to stop you from wearing your usual rags if that’s what you decide is best.”

Hux finishes his hair and crosses to stand facing the window, as if he’s making a speech and the audience lies outside the pane of glass, rapt and floating fifty meters in the air. He folds his arms behind his back, chin up as he continues to address Kylo.

“I only hope you don’t underestimate how important today is. How you present yourself will determine the future of your role within the Order, regardless of whether or not you think it’s useful.”

“I present myself,” Kylo states, “as their unequivocal _master_ , and all those who don’t comprehend that will soon die by my hand if necessary.”

Hux tilts his head slightly to the side, eyes glancing back out of the periphery.

“Everything has been precisely calculated to your benefit, Supreme Leader. Now, it all just hinges on your ability to _execute_.”

Kylo’s expression shifts darkly, recognizing the reproach in Hux’s voice and not liking it. Feeling he’s put up with enough insolence for such a trying day, Kylo stalks up behind him, air in the dressing room tensing as he reaches around to rest his hand against Hux’s windpipe.

“You understand I’m not your puppet, _correct_?”

Hux’s throat twitches beneath his palm. Kylo’s fingers fold slightly about the circumference of the marshal’s neck, a little bit of confidence returning to him as he remembers he can nearly encircle it.

“Of course not, Supreme Leader.”

Kylo lingers, close to Hux, his chest nearly pressing up against the marshal’s back, his nose drifting just above the shell of his ear. This close, he can smell Hux—or more accurately, he can smell the shampoo on his hair, the creamy cleanliness lingering down the declination of his neck before it’s subsumed by the vintage finery of his robe. He calms a little as he inhales, scent distracting his anger.

Hux has been wearing more red lately, as if acknowledging Kylo’s claim to black. It’s a different choice, and clashes slightly with his hair, but the rustle of silky crimson over his skin isn’t that unpleasant.

But Kylo’s not fully mollified yet, not with his blood so aroused by Hux’s behavior. So as soon as he eyes a plush-red, intimately ornate armchair angled out of the wall of the dressing room, he drags Hux over to it and sits, pulling the marshal into his lap.

Hux gasps slightly as he’s forced to sit, legs shifting as he tries to keep them together, only for Kylo’s hands to pry them apart, giving them each a sharp pat that stills further resistance.

It’s not the first time they’ve found themselves in such a state. It’s not even the first time since Kylo had seized power away from Hux that they’ve fallen into compromising positions, each working out their own issues through physical relief.

Kylo can sense Hux’s feelings well in those moments of weakness when he orgasms, his resentment and jealousy nakeder than usual. Obvious enough that Kylo could be expected to kill him for his insubordination, and yet he’s kept Hux alive and warming his bed more times than he feels safe admitting.

His cock stirs in interest against the confines of his ceremonial pants as Hux’s ass squirms in his lap, pressing against his tented groin. Perhaps a little carnal pleasure will stem the unease creeping in the face of the ceremony.

Kylo rucks up the hem of Hux’s robe until it sits around his hips and drapes out over his lap like a cascade of blood. With one hand he reaches around to grasp Hux’s chest, firmly squeezing one pectoral in his palm as the other travels over his thin belly. He and Hux are around the same height but the difference in their bodies will never not entice Kylo—he _relishes_ in how much larger he is than the marshal, in his inherent and inalienable advantage. And for all Hux winged about the Force, he could never claim that Kylo had never _worked_ for his body. The brawn that ratchets through his torso and bulks out his limbs isn’t something freely granted to him, isn’t some birthright or talent. It’s not something Hux can—or should dare—diminish or ignore.

He grasps Hux’s cock with the traveling hand, giving it a hard squeeze. This too, is far smaller than Kylo’s, though like Hux’s body he actually enjoys its size. It fits nicely into his palm, and the little twitches in its shaft feel like concessions to Kylo’s breadth and power. A physical weight in his hand, representative of Hux’s waning resilience, his inability to withstand the Supreme Leader when he has him tethered like this.

As enthralling as he finds Hux’s cock, his own demands attention, and so Kylo lets go of the marshal to rummage in the confines of his ceremonial pants, until he manages to pop open the fasteners and let his straining shaft spring free.

“For your sake, you better have brought lubrication, Grand Marshal,” Kylo murmurs into Hux’s ear and starts a little when he gets up quicker than he expected, red robe fluttering as Hux falls upon the vanity He promptly returns with a small tube and, when Kylo doesn’t make a move to grab for it, slicks his own fingers as he settles back into his lap.

Hux sits up on his knees, straddling Kylo’s thighs as he works the lube in his hand and sticks it between his legs. Kylo brushes the long trail of Hux’s robes over one hip to watch as he plunges his fingers inside himself with a familiar ease. Before they’d become _properly_ intimate, Kylo had oft ordered Hux to pleasure himself as he watched, as to keep the illusion of detachment between them. Eventually that hadn’t been enough to satisfy his seething urges, but Kylo still enjoys the sight of Hux stretching his hole with those thin, deft fingers. Even though now he knows neither of them will be content with only this.

Soon Kylo grows impatient. He sticks his hand in between Hux’s legs and pushes his forefinger alongside the marshal’s busy digits, wringing a cry from his throat as the pressure in his hole dilates.

“Don’t stall,” Kylo growls as he sharply curls the finger inside of Hux before pulling it away. He resists the urge to wipe the lube on Hux’s robe, no doubt ruining the thing, and instead reaches around to grab at his face, probing the slick finger into his mouth as he pulls Hux down towards his cock.

The marshal wobbles and grasps at the arm of the chair, struggling to hold his balance and slow Kylo down even as he tugs him upon his stiff, waiting cock. He can feel Hux’s harsh panting against his palm, and switches his grip from his face to the back of his neckas Hux finally works the head of Kylo’s cock between his oiled asscheeks and begins to push it inside.

The first inches are tighter than he remembered. It has been awhile since either of them has had the time or care to consort with each other like this, as the restructuring of the Order and plans for the ceremony had consumed most of their time. Hux hisses, cheeks puffing out slightly with the effort as he sinks around Kylo, taking most of his cock despite his body’s tremulous misgivings. Truly, Hux’s ability to endure pain and humiliation is one of his more enviable traits.

Once seated within him Kylo starts to roll his hips, cock rutting shallowly in and out of Hux’s ass. He angles him forward slightly, so he can better see where his shaft stretches the marshal’s tender hole, before he lets the robe drift back into place and obscure the view. Kylo keeps his hand on Hux’s neck but moves the other to seize his thigh, his fingers digging into the skin for purchase.

With the robe fallen even further much of the Hux’s back is now exposed to Kylo’s roving eyes, and he enjoys what he sees. Milky white skin fluttering only slightly with the shadows of musculature, peppered only in faint clusters by freckles. Having spent most of his life on cruisers and destroyers, little of Hux’s skin has been damaged by any kind of sunlight, leaving him almost ghostly and inhuman to behold.

Kylo bites where Hux’s neck slopes into his shoulders like the wine bottles the marshal has purposefully selected to christen the Supreme Leader’s coronation. He fails to draw the tang of Hux’s blood but leaves the reddening marks of his teeth when he lifts his head away, saliva coating his skin glistening in the light from the window. Kylo wonders how many hickeys he’d have to make on Hux’s neck to have them visible above the high collar of his ceremonial uniform, and if anyone would care to speculate their origin. Maybe they’d whisper about how whorish Hux looked, trying to cover such degenerate marks with clothing or makeup.

Kylo bucks Hux in his lap, growing rough. His fingers dig long lines from his upper thigh to the jut of his hip as they strive to hold Hux in place despite the pace of his thrusts. He’s growing more wild, driven by the marshal’s yielding body and desperate moans.

“ _This_ is where you belong,” Kylo growls, voice coarsened by pleasure. “Do you understand?”

“Y-Yes, Supreme Leader.” Hux's breath hitches, fucked gradually out of him as he bobs in Kylo’s lap. He’s really a beautiful creature like this, submissive beneath his hands. Kylo will have to not forget this in the future, if Hux’s interference becomes more trying.

The armchair beneath him creaks, shedding dust onto the floor, but despite its age and inauspicious appearance Kylo feels power surge through him as he ravishes Hux. After all, it’s not the make of the throne that matters, but the man seated upon it.

Kylo comes first, sloppily filling Hux as he settles back into the chair. Kylo shudders through the orgasm, hand tightening on the back of Hux’s neck. The marshal moans, continuing to hump back against Kylo’s lap, his own hole quivering and twitching around the sudden load of come before he finally pushes himself over the edge. His cock dribbles down between their spread legs, spoiling the upholstery of the seat below with pale spots.

Kylo holds Hux in place until he starts to go soft inside of him, relishing in the tremble of his body as he sits in his lap. A confident smirk returns to his face, orgasm unwinding the unpleasantness he’d felt before. He nips at Hux’s neck one more time, before leaning back in the armchair.

“Go clean yourself up.”

He pushes Hux forward by the neck, forcing the marshal up and off of his cock. Hux hisses and sways, hand reaching behind him to grip the arm of the chair. He lets go when Kylo swats him on the ass, sending him limping back over to the vanity.

Kylo feels reinvigorated, now that he sees Hux stumbling on weak legs, with damning rivulets of come running down his legs. He almost wishes someone would walk in right now, perhaps one of Hux’s own petty officers, to witness the marshal’s undone state. It would almost be worth having their relationship revealed to someone to see Hux’s face redden with humiliation. Kylo wonders what he would do. Try to spit out an order, affect some of his authoritative tone even as he trembled like a newborn animal?

Perhaps he would cry. Kylo has still never seen Hux cry.

He crosses one leg sideways against the other and watches as Hux cleans the mess between his legs before rubbing off his cock and dropping the soiled tissue into a wastebasket. He almost wishes he’d ended up more dirty himself, so he could humiliate Hux further, order him to clean up Kylo’s cock and any stains incurred on his clothes personally. _Perhaps with his tongue_ , he thought with a cruel smirk. That would be an image that would carry him through all of Hux’s counsel and criticisms.

Kylo has fixed himself up by the time Hux finishes, rising from the chair as he cinches his pants back over his hips. Hux truly looks undone, with his hair loose and ravaged and robe barely covering up his body. Even without the come painting down his thighs, it’s obvious he’s been fucked raw, and Kylo hopes he feels it the entire time he’s standing stiff and stoic at his side at the ceremony. He knows Hux has a speech of his own planned, and if Kylo deigns to give him the chance to speak it, he hopes he feels the shudder of pain and gaping emptiness inside him with every potent word.

Kylo brushes past Hux towards the door, only to stop and turn on his heel.

“ _Ah_. Before I go.”

He seizes Hux’s chin and tilts it up, forcing the marshal to meet his eyes. He grins.

“Give your Supreme Leader a kiss.”

And Kylo can finally see the fury in Hux’s eyes, his inferiority finally hammered home. The marshal might think he can seize the course of Kylo’s newfound rank and steer it in whatever direction he pleases, but as he always has, Kylo holds the upper hand.

He rubs his thumb over Hux’s plump lower lip, feeling it tremble. Any silly aspirations he still has of sitting at the top of the Order must’ve been dashed in just a scant few minutes as Kylo reaffirmed his claim over him. He feels satisfied. Today, he’s _won_.

Hux moves before Kylo can stop him.

He summons the Force at the first dig of Hux’s teeth into the soft meat of his throat right below the jawline, and Kylo can sense the invisible hands poised, strong and furious, above the marshal. This close and with this much power simmering through him he could easily throw Hux into the wall and crack his skull open, or even wrap around his neck and break it like a matchstick. He could even pin Hux to the floor and force his cock back inside him, leave even more bruises dotting the marshal’s body until all that lovely pale and pink was replaced in ugly red and purple and green.

With the smallest of gestures, the most insignificant of _thoughts_ , Kylo could rid himself of the insolent, _infectious_ man for good and rule the Order how best _he_ saw fit, not what Hux had envisioned for Kylo—for _himself_.

But he doesn’t. He keeps the Force wavering, unsure and in reserve, until Hux’s jaw relaxes and he pulls away from Kylo’s neck, a fresh trail of saliva dripping between them. Hux presses his thumb to his lower lip and wipes away a spot of what must be Kylo’s blood, and indeed when he reaches up to touch the bite on his neck he can feel something stickier than spit.

Hux sucks the blood from his finger and laces his hands behind his back.

“You’ll be on your way, then?”

Kylo beats a hasty retreat without saying anything more, his neck throbbing with Hux’s teeth and mind glowing with the last, smug smile the marshal sent him before he stormed away.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope this was fun for you guys! I liked writing it. 
> 
> Hit me up on [Tumblr](http://thethespacecoyote.tumblr.com) and [Twitter](https://twitter.com/heir_of_breath7/).


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